For Better or For Worse
by thesociallyawkwardtwins
Summary: "Break me. Break me. Break me... What will break me?" In the middle of a bombing, in the middle of the darkness, Katniss realizes Gale's importance in her life. And now she must protect him - for his sake, as well as hers. GalexKatniss rewrite of Mockingjay following the bombing of District 13. HIATUS
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Hello! It's been so long. I recently got a couple messages asking me to write more Galeniss, and then I watched the Mockingjay Part II trailers, and I decided I'd better just sit down and write a happy ending for my two favorites :) Might as well patch my heart up before it gets broken again by dumb reality again. Besides, we Galeniss fans need to stick together. There are so few Galeniss fics in comparison to Everlark fics that I must do my part to contribute._

 _This scene takes place during the bombings of District 13 in Mockingjay, right after Prim tells Katniss that President Snow will do whatever it takes to break her. I'm intending for this to be a multi chapter story, but I don't have anything more written so it might take me a while between updates. Also, i'm jumping into Katniss's head for once, which was strange, and I tried to write her as Collins wrote her in Mockingjay... I tried, anyway._

 _Anyway, on we go._

 ** _Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games. Things would've ended completely differently if I was in charge._**

* * *

 _Whatever it takes to break you._

* * *

Sometime during the third or fourth black out, after several more bombs have been dropped, I start to dissolve away into darkness myself. Prim's words keep echoing around in my head. _Break me. Break me. Break me._ When my eyes are closed, I can see President's Snow's face floating in the semidarkness. He's laughing, eyes and lips as red as blood, taunting me. How clever he must feel, knowing he can blow me to bits with a bomb and cleave my heart in half too.

But the pain I experience is deeper than the grief I feel for Peeta. This incident is a reminder that Snow can take anyone away from me at any time. My pain is layered and layered, sensations stacked atop one another—the hardest, most durable of my emotions wrapped around the outside to protect what lies beneath.

My mind is sucked back to Prim's proposition.

And I must ask myself, _What will break me?_

To break me, Snow must reach my core. He must send an arrow deep into my flesh and wedge it in my center. He must tear the tenderness from within my heart and hold it in his own hands. There are glimmers of things that still bring me feelings of pleasantness, maybe even of joy, even now. Even here in 13. In order to break me, these things must be ripped away.

Undoubtedly, President Snow has a strong card to play with Peeta in his clutch. I feel the grief filling my stomach and throat again at the mere thought of the torture that awaits Peeta. The blood splattered on the tile, the agonized screams. I have to force those thoughts out of my head, as they cut deep into my stomach and make me shake with fear. But Peeta, Peeta, even he must know there stronger, more solid things on which my life is founded.

There are very few people in my life that touch my heart. It's a survival tactic—for me, there is no safety in numbers. Instead, I operate under the mindset that it is easiest to protect a pack that is as small and efficient as possible. My mother and Prim, thrust on me by nature, loved through my entire life. Peeta, who I had to care about out of necessity and to whom I now feel attached. These three are obligations. There is one person, though, one solitary person, who _I_ chose.

I begin to imagine a theoretical situation in which Gale and Peeta are switched.

My terror at the mere imagination immediately drags up memories of Gale's shattered form hanging senseless at the whipping post, nightmares of a bullet in his brain, imaginings of President Snow slowly sucking the life out of him. It's more than grief that rises up inside me – it's icy cold terror. There's something final about the way it fills me. Like the way winter's last frost strangles the first brave flower buds of spring.

I slip out of my designated bunk when I absolutely can't stand it anymore. I have to move or else I'll disappear into the darkness. Prim is sound asleep with Buttercup curled up next to her, and she doesn't even stir as I leave her. It's so dark with the power out that I can't see where I'm stepping, but I keep moving anyway.

Throughout the bunker, there are a few battery-operated lanterns still on to light the way in the event of an additional emergency. People are huddled around these lights, their faces made angular and aggressive by the shadows. We were told to remain in silence even after the thunder of the first few bombs settled, but hushed conversations have broken out between bunkmates who have not yet fallen asleep.

The quiet voices hide the sounds of my feet as I make my way along the perimeter of the bunker where it is darkest. The people I walk by stare at me. They're wondering why the Mockingjay feels she is important enough to be walking around right now.

To avoid their stares, I turn my gaze upward. I can barely make out the painted numbers above the bunks.

 _38\. 39. 40._

I keep moving, my eyes glued on the bunk numbers, and no one stops me. Someone managed to smuggle cards down here, and a group of men have begun to play card games, lying flat on their stomachs behind a row of bunks to avoid being noticed.

Finally, I find 47.

Hazelle and Posy are curled up on the top bunk. Vick and Rory are in another bed next to them. Gale's tall figure is crammed and folded into the bottom bunk. The rest of his family is asleep, or at least pretending to be, but Gale's eyes are wide open, staring into the bottom of the bunk above him. I try to be as silent as I possibly can as I kneel down next to him.

"Gale," I whisper. I'm shaking uncontrollably.

I startle him, and he sits up instantly. There's barely enough room on the bottom bunk for him to sit up straight. Without much thought, I force my way in next to him, pulling my knees up to my chest.

"Catnip?" he asks.

I don't know what to say.

"What are you doing?" he asks. He looks worried, probably because I've curled myself up into a ball and lost the ability to speak.

My brain is working overtime, trying to figure out what it is I want to say to him. The images flash across my mind again— Gale's lacerated back, the look in his eyes as he disappears into the jaws of the Capitol. I tense unconsciously.

"Hey," Gale says, sitting up straighter. He touches my arm. "Easy. _Easy._ What's wrong?"

"That was stupid of you," I mutter. It's the first thing to force its way out of my mouth.

Gale lets out a breath that is somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. "What was?"

"Going after Prim earlier," I say. "It was incredibly stupid of you."

He sighs again, crossing his arms across his chest. "With Peeta's warning, I had time. I wasn't going to go against my instincts and come down here without checking."

Though I don't think he intends it, his words sting. I am obligated to keep Prim safe as her sister– how could I have sat still, waiting idly for her to wander in when I should have known she'd go back for that stupid cat. I try to force the feelings of self-hatred out of the way. As long as Gale is by my side, I can rely on him to think of what I let slide through. That's what hunting partners do, right? Rely on each other? But the horrors of the Games have turned my mind into a sieve. Important things are starting to slip through.

My throat tightens. I cannot let Gale slip through. I cannot let Prim slip through.

I rest my head against Gale's shoulder. "Thank you," I whisper into the cloth of his sleeve.

Gale isn't good at receiving thanks. His selflessness, he chalks up to debts he has worked up. For everything he has done for me, he has an explanation. It's always repayment for some incident long buried and taken care of. But what have I done for him lately? He loves and loves and gives and gives, and I take.

"Thank you," I repeat it again. "And I'm sorry."

"Sorry for what?" Gale asks quietly.

It's a good question. What exactly am I apologizing for? There are a thousand things.

"I'm just sorry," I say. I wonder if sorry begins to mean less the more I say it.

Gale leans back against the wall behind us, making it easier for me to keep my head on his shoulder. "Look, Catnip, there's no way you could have known Prim would go back to your compartment. There's a lot of shit on your mind, it's fine—"

"You could have died," I say forcefully. My heart twinges.

"Could have," he says, "but didn't."

"By sheer luck."

"By Peeta's warning," Gale clarifies. "Peeta gave us time. Without his warning, we would've all been blown up. Thank Peeta, if you want to thank anyone."

There's a second of silence. Someone lying a couple beds over coughs, breaking up the quietness.

I know why Gale brings Peeta up. Gale is proud, jealous. But he's not unreasonable. Anyone who grew up in the Seam knows to give credit where credit is due. We owe our lives to Peeta for his risk, and Gale knows that, no matter how much the two of them are at odds. Besides, I think he acknowledges Peeta for my sake. He thinks I might like him better if he elevates Peeta.

He's wrong. I like him better, anyway.

I'm surprised at how quickly the thought comes— _I like him better anyway._ It settles into my mind like I've already built a spot for it. And how comforting it is to have it in there. All of the sudden, in the middle of a bomb threat, in the middle of a bunker full of darkness, a moment of peace buds inside of me. I sit with my head resting on Gale's shoulder, and all I hear is his heartbeat, even and steady. I feel right; I feel safe.

"Thank you anyway," I say. I shut my eyes, and the light from the lanterns scattered about the bunker burns star-like patterns on the back of my eyelids. "For everything."

It gets a weight off my chest. I can only hope that Gale understands what I cannot express. I hope he understand that I'm sorry for all of it. Everything. All he has been through. Sorry that he was alone during the Games to take care of two starving families. Sorry that I lied. Sorry that I even pretended with Peeta. Sorry that he is thin from loving and loving and loving. Sorry that he feels so alone.

Gale breathes slowly next to me. "No problem, Catnip."

His words are scattered as another bomb drops far above us. The lanterns are flicked off, and the whole room shakes. All around us, people wake with a start and huddle in their bunks, staring at the roof, fearing it might give a sign of stress. Almost instinctively, Gale throws an arm around my shoulders and pulls me against his chest.

There is silence after the initial shock, and thankfully no bombs follow.

My panic is fresh now. Suddenly, I am years and years back. People are huddled around the mine entrance. I am twelve years old, and my father's body never resurfaces from the depths. I wonder if Gale is thinking about that day, too.

My eyes squeeze shut, and I almost wonder why sirens aren't going off now. It takes me almost a minute to pull myself back to reality.

When it is silent again, and the lanterns are turned back on for light, I sit up again. Gale lifts his arm to take it from my shoulders, but I stop him. We sit side by side like we would on cold winter mornings before our Sunday hunting trips.

I break the silence with a whisper. "Prim said that Snow would do anything it takes to break me, and that's why he's doing this to Peeta."

Gale cringes, but he's back to normal a second later. "She's wise for a twelve year old," he comments.

I wrap my arms around my knees. "But I think there's something wrong with Snow's plan."

"And what's that?"

My throat is so tight with nerves that I can hardly bring myself to put my feelings into words. I've never been good at emotions in general, but this is too important to conceal. Too important to my sanity and too important to Gale's survival.

"I think… I think he chose the wrong man," I say. I'm embarrassed, wrapped up here in Gale's arms. "If he wants to break me, he chose the wrong man to torture."

I feel Gale's realization in the way he's sitting. His hand on my shoulder turns so gentle, like the flutter of a moth's wing. His tension deflates with a quiet sigh, and he turns his face to bury his lips in my hair.

He is speechless.

As if they are trying to protect Gale from having to respond, two more bombs drop above us in quick succession. We are once again dropped into complete darkness. The tension returns to Gale's grip—once again, we are five years younger, but this time we are five years less afraid because we are together.

More bombs are thundering above us. The lights are swinging back and forth throughout the bunker.

I grab the hand that Gale is resting on his leg. He takes hold of mine tightly, protectively. This is his response. This is his promise.

And here is mine. "I won't lose you," I say. My words are quick.

Gale's lips move against my forehead. "You won't."

"You have to promise me you won't get blown up," I say. After all of our years, this is still our greatest fear. The son cannot die like the father.

There's a second of silence. No bombs and no words. Gale holds my hand in his. "I promise," he says. "Anything for you."

* * *

 _A/N Part II: As always, thank you for reading. There was a lot of introspection up there. I know that's not the most riveting thing to read, but I couldn't find a way around it. Will be plenty of Galeniss in the future, don't worry. Please let me know what you thought of it! I really do appreciate that you read all the way down here :D_


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N Part I: Hello, I'm back! Sorry it took so long for this chapter to be posted... There's been a lot going on recently, and I finally saw the MJ Part II movie, which just infuriated me, but oh well. I finally decided to get back on and finish this chapter up. I have to do what I can to bandage the Gale-sized hole in my heart. This story will give Gale and Katniss a much better ending than the canon one. Enjoy!_

* * *

I cause quite a stir by not being in my assigned bunker the next morning. Boggs is sent to collect me for a command meeting after no more bombers are detected, and I am nowhere to be found. Prim wakes up in a panic, which convinces the guards that I've gone missing. I'm not sure where they think I've wandered off to, but thankfully, someone suggests Gale be enlisted to join in the search for me since he knows my hiding spots the best— and that's how they find us.

Sometime after the sky went quiet, I must have fallen asleep in Gale's bunk with him.

Gale jerks awake as Boggs appears in front of Section 47, and I nearly roll straight to the floor. I am curled up on my side, my head resting comfortably in Gale's lap. My comfort lasts only a few seconds, and then Boggs hauls me to my feet to give me a lecture on following orders.

After a second, Gale leans out from beneath the bunk. He rubs his neck, which must be sore from spending the night bent awkwardly against the stone wall to accommodate his height. I feel a flickering sense of gratitude in the pit of my stomach for him allowing me to sleep comfortably, but I am pulled back to my senses as Boggs grips my shoulder.

"President Coin wants to see you," he says to me in a hard voice. At least he's not yelling anymore. He glances over in Gale's direction. "You, too, Soldier."

Blearily, we follow Boggs through the maze of reclining bodies and thick semidarkness into a well-lit hallway off to the side. The first door on the right leads to a room that looks almost identical to Command. A variety of higher-ups are crammed into the small space, monitoring screens, checking a countdown until it is absolutely safe for civilians to leave the bunkers. I see Finnick and Haymitch have already been collected.

President Coin barely looks up from the computer screen in front of her. "I need the four of you above ground immediately. You have an hour to get as much footage as you can to prove that we're still strong."

We're given no further instructions before we're ushered into separate rooms. My prep team gets me dressed in an armored Mockingjay uniform and covers the significant dark circles under my eyes with a thin layer of make-up. I feel myself slipping into a passive haze. I move like a marionette, guided by Plutarch and Coin high above me, twisting and turning at their command.

The team moves single file through hallways and up ladders until we break the surface. The sudden rush of fresh air is shocking to my lungs, and it's like a weight has been lifted from my chest. The freedom is fleeting, though. All around, trees are flattened and bent against the enormous force of the bombs. The first crater appears about twenty yards from the exit.

"Damage?" Gale asks Boggs quietly after a moment of silence.

"Some unused storage facilities and the top layer of compartments," Boggs replies. He stares into the lowest depth of the crater. "We're lucky we had a warning. There would have been very few casualties, but we are in debt to that warning."

His gaze flickers over to mine, thanking Peeta through me. I can't hold eye contact for more than a millisecond because I feel so monstrous in Peeta's wake. I have no attachment to his goodness, which is being corrupted and polluted every second as we stand here. Somehow, Peeta and I have become a collective unit. When people think of Peeta, they think of me as well.

"What will be done?" Gale asks.

"The area will be sealed off," Boggs says, moving around the edge of the crater to examine the rest. "We have no need for it anyway, and it would be dangerous to use it now."

There's silence after that. We're all thinking about the same thing – what would have happened if we hadn't run the drill when we did. How many District Thirteen citizens would've been blown flat by bombs because we didn't have enough time? And all this because I couldn't kill Peeta. All this because I did something stupid and rebellious and desperate.

"Is this the only crater that caused any damage?" Finnick asks finally.

Boggs nods. "They have no idea where we are."

Next to me, Gale deflates. Something flashes in his eyes. A harsh, unrestrained memory. I wonder if he's thinking about the firebombs back in Twelve. The Capitol certainly didn't miss their target then. I cannot imagine what it would have been like to watch our home burn to the ground. Our home and thousands of ordinary, undeserving citizens. Gale thinks about it as often as I think about the Games. Except when he dreams, he is at home, standing in the Meadow listening as fire engulfs the school house. To live through that is to live through a hell almost as fiery as the Hunger Games. At least, Gale led a few hundred people to safety. At least, there is that.

I wonder what it's like to save lives instead of destroy them. I wonder what it must feel like. I'd say there's no guilt in it, but I know Gale wanted to save them all. Maybe not all, realistically, but more than he did. Is that guilt, then, or just disappointment? I can't tell the difference, but I know he wants to go back to that moment and let himself be burned instead.

And me, I want to go to Gale, hold onto him, and never let him go. But to do so now, in the middle of a war, would seem selfish, though I don't do it for myself. I do it because he must live. A man more human than any other, full of imperfections and anger and love and pain. A man who wants to do better. Doesn't the desire to do better outweigh the act of continuously doing the best? Isn't one more admirable than the other? At least Gale is trying.

Sometimes I feel like I'm not trying any more. Sometimes, I wonder if any of us are really trying.

Cressida checks her watch, and we move on towards another crater, one that is more suitable a backdrop. We stop after about a minute, twenty paces from a new depression, and the team begins to line up the shot: my face along with the flattened landscape behind me. My prep team flutters around me, dusting another layer of powder on my face and moving my hair around.

After a second, Gale calls out my name from behind me. He and Finnick are crouched at the edge of the crater. Gale's tone is curious, confused. He moves something around on the ground with the toe of his boot, and I have to take a couple more steps to see what lies within the crater. And it's a curious sight – Gale standing there in his heavy, black armor in front of an ocean of white roses.

The breath is knocked out of me. I stagger forward until I'm standing on the very edge of the crater. It's breathtakingly like a dusting of snow. Instead of bombs, soft snow flakes dropped from the sky.

But up close, I see the roses are wilted, turning brown along the edges of their delicate petals, and I am reminded of the thundering bombs, the people that could have died.

This is beyond the quick, piercing pain of the solitary rose I found in my house in the Victor's Village. That was a threat on my life alone, and I grow too tired to react to Snow's intimidation when it comes to my own survival. But this—this is an attack on a whole civilization. This has spread out beyond my fingertips. This is so much more than a few nightlock berries trapped in my fist.

I can hardly find words for an explanation. "They're for me," I whisper.

Finnick hears me. "A present from Snow," he says.

It's almost as though Snow is scattering roses on a stage for the performers to collect. He is commending us for a wonderful performance, for putting on a great show. His mockery is a slap in the face. To him, maybe, this is just another game. War is just another spectacle to watch on live television, but to us, it's the only way to survive. Toeing the line between dying and living.

The camera crew has gathered around us now. Cressida is framing up a new shot with this puddle of roses to be the background. I want to vocalize my revulsion, but my mouth isn't working yet. I think Snow will find it amusing that we're using his flowers as a broadcast for war.

"They're fresh," Gale comments. "Must've been dropped last."

I turn around to see him holding one of the roses delicately in his hand. He rotates it between his fingers. A petal falls on the ground lazily.

I grow dizzy at the sight and forget to breathe.

I realize that this is not just Snow mocking us for our valiant efforts to dethrone him. These roses are scattered like flowers tossed onto a grave by tear-blinded grievers. This heap of flowers marks a grave. This heap of flowers sends a message.

I lash out abruptly and knock the rose out of Gale's hand. "Don't touch them," I say in a voice that is choked.

I am shaking now, having realized how little control I really have over the safety of those I love. I have no more pawns left in this game. I can no longer pretend I have any bargaining power. Snow has a thousand cruel and thoughtless ways to end Gale's life. Snow can obliterate him as easily as dropping a bomb on a hillside. As easy as delivering me a white rose.

"Fine," Gale replies, looking at me curiously. "I won't touch them."

Maybe in a while I'll be able to find words to explain how much danger he is in or how desperately I want to keep him safe, but for now, those thoughts are trapped inside me.

The camera team is ready now, and Cressida moves me back into position. Huge lamps are positioned to get the lighting just right. They tape a little microphone against my cheek to catch my every word. The cameras zoom and focus.

My head is swimming. "What am I supposed to say?" I ask.

"Tell everyone that you're safe," Cressida says. "We need to encourage the districts, reassure them that the bombings have not destroyed us."

Everyone is staring at me like I should know the magic words, like propaganda should flow out of my mouth like honey, but today, there's hardly anything but fear in my head.

"Didn't Plutarch write me a speech or something," I say dumbly. "Isn't there a script?"

"Not today," Haymitch replies. "Speak from the heart, sweetheart."

I don't feel encouraged or safe for that matter, and Haymitch must know this. I worry momentarily that he's trying to embarrass me, but I think he's just trying to get me through it.

I nod dumbly to Cressida, and the little red lights on the cameras blink on.

I feel like a child, uncomfortable and stupid, under these lights. My mind is unquestionably blank except for the image of the white rose in Gale's hand. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

Luckily, Finnick comes to my rescue. From behind the cameras, he prompts me. "The Capitol has just dropped bombs on us, but we are alive."

I look at him like I would look upon an angel. I force my gaze back to the red blinking light next to the camera lens. "The Capitol has dropped bombs on us, but we are alive," I repeat. My voice is less convincing than Finnick's.

"We are not backing down," Finnick continues. "We are as strong as ever."

I lick my lips. "We are not backing down. We are as strong as ever," I parrot his words. I feel the lies on my teeth like tar. We can't make these promises—these awful, impossible promises of safety and life.

I look to Finnick for more lines, but he's looking at the roses in the crater now. His lips are a tight line, his eyes are slightly unfocused.

"Continue to fight," Cressida supplements. "Together, we can take on the Capitol."

My throat is too dry. I swallow after an awkward silence. "Continue to fight," I say. I don't sound convincing, and I know I'll have to read these lines again in another shot in some other location. I sound like a child lying desperately to get out of trouble and failing.

My head starts to swim with terrible thoughts. Of bombers flying overhead. Of Peeta being beaten to the ground for saving our lives. Of children being burned alive inside their schoolhouse.

I swallow again. "Together—" my voice catches.

What can't Snow do? Where can I hide that his fingers won't reach? If I bury myself, Prim, Mother, Gale, Peeta – if I bury us all underground here in District 13, can we be saved?

The answer, I know deep somewhere in my stomach, is no.

"Together…" I try again.

There is a second of silence, and Cressida moves a step forward. "Come on, Katniss," she says. Some frustration appears in her voice. "You can do it."

I try a third time. "Together, we can…"

But we can't. I can't promise anyone anything, and that's the whole of it. I thought I could protect Peeta, but he could be bleeding out in the Capitol as we speak. Peeta would have been the easiest to protect – with his perfect, Capitol-bending personality and his gentle resignation, but if I can't even promise him safety, what about everyone else? What about Gale, who has already been so close to death? What about Prim, who would be such an easy target for Snow?

A wind blows in from behind me, carrying the delicate scent of dying roses. Everything hangs heavy on my shoulders.

My throat squeezes closed. "I can't," I whisper. I try to offer some explanation, but no sound comes out of my throat. I can't breathe, and I have to close my eyes in order to stay upright. I start moving without really controlling myself just to get away from the cameras and the staring and the roses.

I drop into someone's arms – Gale's – gasping for breath between dry sobs. He holds onto me firmly, supporting the weight of my whole body as my legs give out beneath me.

"I can't—I can't—" I keep choking on my words before I can get them out of my mouth. Besides, I don't know how I'd finish the sentence anyway. Even the act of standing seems overwhelming while I am still the Mockingjay.

Why did it have to grow so personal? Why did this war have to crawl its way into my chest and make battlefields inside me? I want to go back to the Arena and swallow the berries whole and die and let Peeta win. What a great Victor he would have made by himself.

All I wanted to do was get home.

I want to go back. I want to go all the way back. To a moment in the forest with Gale at my side, the sun dipping low on the horizon, the rust colored sky reaching through the trees. Am I listening to the wind rustling through the leaves, or is it Gale's laughter?

I feel my palms hit the rocky ground, and I double forwards, pressing my forehead into the dirt at my knees. Gale's arms are still around my waist. Another set of hands is trying to pull me upright.

Gale's lips are at my ear. "It's alright," he says in a whisper. "It's alright."

" _No_ ," I sob. I repeat it over and over again. I can't say it enough. I want to tear my throat, my heart, my everything out. I want to shred my life to pieces. "It's not fair."

"I'll take care of it," Gale's voice insists.

"We're all going to die," I sob out. "It's not fair. He's going to kill Peeta, and then—and then—"

I am pulled to my feet before anything else can force its way out, and someone else holds me tight. It's not Gale because I know his arms to well. It must be Haymitch, then. Haymitch, the only other person who knows and cares for Peeta.

After that, there's a needle, and then nothing else.

* * *

 _A/N Part II: Thanks so much for reading! These past two chapters haven't been the most riveting reads, I know, but hopefully it'll be more exciting in the future! Feel free to drop a review and let me know what you thought. It might make me write a little faster._

 _Just as a warning, I don't have anything pre-written, so I'm starting from scratch for the rest of the story. There might be a week or two (or more, who knows) between updates... Sorry! I'll try my best to write like the wind._

 _Thanks so much!_


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